


Just Before Dawn

by poisontaster



Series: Light 'Verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Developing Relationship, Ficlet, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-01
Updated: 2006-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-27 05:32:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5035744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The curse is broken, but maybe so is their relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Before Dawn

I.

The breaking of the curse is like an orgasm all its own; a build up of almost unbearable pressure inside him and then—when it can't be contained any more, when Dean's crammed it into every space within him and there's no room left—a breaking. A release. Freedom.

Dean takes what feels like his first actual breath in…he's not quite sure how long, but long enough that he _stinks_ to high heaven. Which doesn't seem to matter much to Sam, who has his face tucked into the hollow of Dean's neck, making soft sleepy kisses against Dean's overheated skin.

Dean closes his eyes and just sort of…not thinks. He's good at the not thinking. The thing he's never been able to get Sam to understand is sometimes you just have to turn your brain the fuck off and deal with what's in front of you.

What's in front of him is Sam. Sam, naked and curled up against his side. Sam, who he just fucked. Sam, who isn't and can't be just a hook-up, a one-night stand, a fling, a thing. Sam, who—he thinks—just asked him for forever.

Dean's sort of glad that he's not thinking right now, because otherwise some serious tweaking out and punching of walls and other non-resilient surfaces might be in order. He's sort of tired, though. Maybe tomorrow. Dean sort-of laughs—which sounds like shit because his voice is just _thrashed_ —and Sam stiffens.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"How do you feel?" Careful. Such a careful question. So fucking Sammy it's absurd and Dean can tell, Sam's thinking.

"I'm good. I'm tired. We should get some sleep. I'm starting to hate the look of this room y'know?"

"Oh. Yeah." Suddenly Sam's sliding away from him, sliding off the bed entirely. And the thing is, Dean can hear Sam's brain vibe so hard it's practically making the windows rattle. Which…isn't totally out of the ballpark, given Sam's special talents. "I should shower."

Inwardly, Dean sighs. It's a simple equation for Dean; Sam wants this, Sam wants _him_ , Sam's…well, _Sam_ and forever sounds just fucking fine by Dean. He's never been picky about the how of how he gets what he wants. Goals get met. The end goal is the thing. Besides, Sam's a pretty good damn lay. Dean could do a hell of a lot worse and not much better. The monogamy thing might be an issue, because Sam's not a fuck around kind of guy, but Dean's willing to work on that.

But Sam… Sam's always got to make shit complicated. And then it's up to Dean to straighten it out. And his track record with that is…spotty.

So here he goes. The fix.

II.

"Sam."

Dean's voice is flat. Unemotional. The voice he uses when He Means It, but also the voice for when he doesn't want you to see anything more than the words themselves, his shield, his armor. Sam makes himself stop, braces himself. Well. His body stiffens. Inside, he doesn't know if he can brace himself for anything, teetering on a crumbling edge. "Yeah?"

"I came for you, remember? At Stanford."

"I know that, Dean."

"I didn't have to. I mean, I could have gone after Dad on my own. You were right about that. And I said…"

"You said you didn't want to," Sam finishes dully. Then, in the silence that follows, his exhausted brain catches up to the breadcrumb trail of Dean's words. "Wait," Sam says. At his side, his fingers flex and loosen, unable to be still. " _Wait._ Dean—"

He turns around. In the semi-dark, he can only see the pyrite glitter of Dean's eyes and the vague cutout shape of his body. "Yeah." Dean says. Which is not an answer to anything or anybody but Dean. And maybe, _maybe_ Sam, who's been studying the finer points of Deanism his entire life. "So…are we okay?"

Sam can't. He just can't make himself make that leap. It seems…too much like everything he wanted and that's not… That's not the Winchester Way. "I don't know, Dean. Are we?" His voice doesn't quaver. That's the important thing. It comes out steady and Sam wishes he felt half so solid.

Dean sighs. It's exasperated and frustrated and _familiar_ and it makes Sam's breath bottle up in his throat because he's heard it a million times and he knows, _knows_ , without a shadow of a doubt what it means. _You're a moron, Sam._

"Come to bed, Sam," Dean says, with an air of world-weariness that only _Dean_ can affect.

Sam looks down at himself, sweaty-dirty and come-itchy. It takes a second—less than a second—and then he's crossing the room in two long strides, to the mattress and down.

To where Dean's waiting for him.


End file.
